


The Right Person

by sheepybaa



Series: The Right Person [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Allosexual, Asexuality, Multi, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepybaa/pseuds/sheepybaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The first time Jim realized he was different was in ninth grade.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Person

The first time Jim realized he was different was in ninth grade. 

“I love you,” Leanna said shyly, looking down at where their hands were linked in her lap.  She was so, so pretty, and so fun to spend time with; dating her was nice, like wearing a warm blanket.  It was his first relationship that had lasted more than a month or two.  He thought it was going really well. 

Jim just smiled awkwardly, squeezed her hand, and felt deeply uncomfortable.  She met his gaze through her eyelashes with a little smile, the emotion in her eyes making Jim want to tear his hand from hers and run far, far away to a place where those feelings couldn’t touch him.  He could feel himself tense, panic bubbling in his chest even as she put her other hand on top of his and patted it, saying, “I understand if you’re not ready to say it,” gently, sympathetic.  

After she'd left, Jim went into the bathroom and vomited. 

“I love you,” he told her, a month later, unable to look her in the eyes.  It felt like a lie. 

Five significant others and too many messy break-ups later, Jim decided that relationships probably weren’t for him.  He told his mom so over dinner during senior year, on one of her rare Earth shore leaves. 

“You just haven’t met the right person yet,” his mother told him mildly from where she sorted through her Starfleet papers at the kitchen table, spaghetti untouched at her elbow.  “When you do, you’ll know.”

Jim felt frustration bubble up within him. “What the hell does that even mean?” he snapped, stabbing his fork mutinously against his plate. 

The shuffling stopped and his mother looked up.  For once, she met his eyes. 

Putting her papers down, Winona (because it was tough to think of her as “mom” sometimes, when she was off planet more than half the year) leaned back in her chair and sighed heavily. For the first time since she'd returned, the Starfleet officer facade dropped, and Lieutenant Commander Winona Kirk didn't look cool, or businesslike, or utterly unruffled by the world around her: instead, she looked unspeakably tired. She brushed a hand over her mouth, brow furrowed, and shook her head; her eyes were full of faraway memories that Jim had only ever glimpsed in newspaper scraps and old photographs of a man long dead. 

"Hell, Jim," she said wearily, "I don't know what to tell you. Love isn't something definable, I know that much--and don't bristle at me like that; believe it or not, I don't have all the answers. Just let me--"

She cut herself off with a frustrated noise and a careless wave of her hand and dropped her head into her palm, fingers gripping her bangs tightly as her hair curtained around her face, hiding her expression. The muscles in her arms were corded and tense. Jim bit back an angry retort and waited.

Winona thought for a long time (fifteen minutes--Jim kept track), and when she finally spoke, her voice was very quiet.

“It starts small,” she began slowly, like the words cost her something to say. “Just liking them, wanting to spend time with together--a strange pull in your gut that you can't explain. And then, before you know it, you want to be with them all the time.  You want to share your life with them, and you want them--to be _happy_ , and to be happy with _you_.  It just--it feels--it feels _different_. Different from other things.” 

Winona was silent for a moment, her expression dissatisfied, before she focused back in on him and shrugged.  Her eyes were tired, drained, as she added, “That’s the best I can tell you, Jim.”

Jim had no idea what the hell she thought she was talking about. 

 

 

When Jim got to college, he, like any other good upstanding collegian, joined Berkeley’s LGBTQ group.  It was unusual for anyone to stay out of it; most students went to a couple of the big yearly events, or attended a meeting or two when they had time.  Jim thought the history behind the whole idea was interesting, and threw himself into it with his usual gusto. 

“Damn, Jim,” Q’uorra said mildly from his right, her elbow brushing his as they splashed around on the wooden boards laid out for the event.  “Maybe if you put this much effort into your relationships, you wouldn’t be forever alone.”  Paint was everywhere: on the students, on the lawn, on people’s clothing.  This party had been a tradition since the nationwide legalization of gay marriage back in the old United States.  The LGBTQ house had a huge basement that they wallpapered with the board voted “best” by the club. Jim enthusiastically stomped a huge, splattering footprint in the middle of their slab of recycled plywood.  The effect was fantastic. 

“Maybe if you shut your face, Q’uorra,” Jim said, “And spent more time painting, this board will look as fucking awesome as I intend it to.”

“Don’t end your sentences with prepositions,” she replied automatically like the stuffy English major she was, before rolling her eyes and sitting down heavily on the board, then butt-scooting across it a surprisingly artistic fashion. 

Later, after sunset, the club regulars were gathered in a circle around a bonfire behind the house, beers cracked and laughter floating through the air.  The winning board was laid out to dry on the back porch, the rest long since hauled away to the recycling center for processing.  It had been a pretty good day.  Surrounded by friends, with the warmth of the fire soaking into his skin, Jim felt content. 

“Hey,” Q’uorra said, flopping down in the grass next to him and reaching out for a toast.  Jim clinked his bottle with hers and they both took swigs.  The beer bubbled pleasantly going down; it tasted faintly of oranges, sweet and cool on the edge of summer.  

Jim licked his lips and stared as Q’uorra tipped her head back to take a long swallow.  He tracked a bead of moisture, lingering from her shower, as it slid slowly down the arched line of her throat and into the collar of her damp t-shirt.  The firelight reflecting off her hair made it glint almost purple as she pushed it out of her face, lowering her beer.  She caught his gaze and paused, her movements slowing.  Half-turning towards him, Q'uorra raised a brow.  One corner of her mouth quirked up.  Jim swallowed. 

Half an hour later, Q’uorra leaned over, hand on his thigh, and murmured, “Wanna get out of here?”

As they fell back into her apartment, heads fuzzy and hearts racing, Jim said, “'Wanna get out of here?'  Really?  That was the best you could do?”

“Don’t lie to me, Jim Kirk; I know you’re an easy lay,” Q’uorra drawled, ostentatiously sliding a hand up the front of his shirt. 

“Hey, I have my standards,” Jim said, faking offense as he slipped his fingers down the back of her jeans.  She arched into the touch, going up on her tiptoes to help him, and retorted, “What, breathing?”

The next morning, he woke to her almond-shaped eyes glittering at him and her hand creeping down his stomach holding a condom. 

“Good morning,” she declared, slinging a leg over him and sinking down on his dick.  Jim’s breath left him in a whoosh. 

She made eggs, he fried bacon, and they went for overpriced hipster coffee at a place between her apartment and campus.  They sat outside chatting in the mist, calves touching underneath the table, and when a lull came in the conversation, Q’uorra said, “So, no offense, Jim, but don’t expect any lovey-dovey bullshit out of me after this, ‘cause--and I don't know if you knew this, but--I’m aromantic.”

“You’re, uh. You're what, now?” Jim said, blinking as he set his coffee down.  Q’uorra didn't seem offended, or even surprised, actually: she looked amused, like she got this a lot. Jim's confusion grew.  

“I'm an aromantic heterosexual,” she elaborated patiently.  “Long story short, I’m not romantically attracted to anyone. Like an ace, difference being that I _am_ sexually attracted to people,” she said, then smiled slyly and added, “as you well know.”

“Wait--wait, okay.  Back up for me, for a second,” Jim said, ineloquent.  He was having trouble getting his thoughts in order.  “So…when, when you say you don’t feel romantically attracted to _anyone_ \--like, anyone at all--how, exactly, do you _know?_ ”

Q'uorra frowned thoughtfully and leaned back in her patio chair.  "Huh.  That's a new one," she confessed, brow furrowed. "Like, what does it _feel_ like, you mean?"

"I...yeah, I guess," Jim said, equally bemused.  

“...Weeeell,” Q’uorra began slowly, as if she was choosing her words carefully, “I guess the best way to describe it is that romantic love—the very concept, even—feels…weird, to me.  Foreign, I mean.  I don’t really _get_ it, y'know, at least not on that gut-feeling instinctual level everyone else seems to talk about, right, and I can't really empathize with it, I guess, mostly because I don’t understand how the way you love a good friend is any different from the way you love your significant other. That’s...probably the best way of putting it,” she finished somewhat pensively.  

“That’s a _thing?_ ” Jim said, staring at Q’uorra earnestly. “There’s a _name_ for it?”

The next couple hours, Jim more or less spilled his heart to her, and got the same in return.  They compared life experiences, relationship issues, and Jim’s chest felt tight with the overwhelming feeling of relief that he was not alone.  He was not broken, or a freak, or even all that uncommon—there were plenty of recognizing aromantic allosexuals all around the Federation, as Jim was now finding out: Q’uorra's Martian mother was happily married to her aromantic businessman father. 

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Q’uorra said quietly towards the end of the conversation, “Hell, you’ve probably noticed already—there’s a pretty heavy stigma here on Earth about aromantic allosexuals.”

“Yeah,” Jim agreed simply, thinking back to the ringing slap Leanna had given him when he’d admitted that he didn’t love her the way she wanted. 

“Yeah. It’s the history of slut-shaming, and that sort of shit, you know?” Q’uorra admitted, rolling her empty coffee cup on the table with one finger. “People in Earth media who want their partners sexually without loving them are always the assholes.  It’s gotten better, over the years, but it’s still a pretty big cultural bias.”

 

 

“Pretty big cultural bias” was an understatement.  Q'uorra aside, Jim got shit at Berkeley.  Jim got shit in Iowa.  And after joining Starfleet Academy, Jim got shit from pretty much all of campus. 

And almost ten years later, after he’d dropped out of Berkeley, saved the world twice, and explored god only knows how much uncharted space, Jim _still_ got shit for his orientations.  Frankly, it got kind of depressing, after a while, being disliked for being who he was. 

People just didn't seem to get it.  Jim wasn't trying to upset anyone, but his partners always seemed to assume his lack of romantic feeling was a choice, and if he tried to claim otherwise, they thought it was a cop-out.  It was bullshit, but after a while, he sort of got used to it.  Being branded an asshole playboy was apparently just one of the realities of being James T. Kirk. 

Shockingly, the person who ended up understanding how he felt was Spock.  

Two years into their five-year mission, Uhura broke up with him.  The ship was off-put, but not completely shocked; the general consensus, afterwards, was that the two of them had been fairly compatible, but it was never really going to last. 

They kept it pretty quiet, despite the gossip, but the private word amongst the bridge crew was that she'd thought he didn’t love her as much as she loved him.  Apparently, he'd agreed.  And that was that. 

Jim watched the two of them carefully during Alpha shift for a week after the split, glancing between them where they sat at opposite stations on the bridge.  Things were still a little tense, but at the very least they were on speaking terms. As the days passed, he could see them slowly but surely feeling out the new relationship, navigating the waters through their professionalism and going back to being just friends.  He felt confident they’d be okay. 

After a few weeks had passed, Uhura was more or less back to normal.  When they were verging on a month, and Spock remained uncharacteristically quiet and disturbingly void of Vulcan sass, Jim started to get worried.  At first, he'd been willing to chalk it up to post-break-up melancholy, but after a short period of adjustment, Spock was usually quick to bounce back and adjust to change, no matter how severe it was.  Out of concern for his first mate and friend, Jim, with some very ulterior motives, invited him to play chess in his quarters. 

“You doing okay?” Jim asked his First Officer simply once they’d settled in.  They were only a few moves in, which was sooner to be breaking the ice than Jim might have liked, but he could already tell that Spock’s attention wasn’t on the game.  Three moves in, and Jim could see two different paths to checkmate: two more than Spock usually allowed him. 

Spock made no indication he'd heard the question, using the cover of calculating his next move to excuse his silence, but Jim knew he had.  He was probably trying to figure out the best way to throw Jim off the scent--or, y'know, trying to find a polite, Vulcan way to tell his captain to fuck off. Jim’d gotten good at reading between the lines.  

“I assume you are referring to my separation from Lieutenant Uhura,” Spock eventually said, moving a pawn to take Jim's rook. "Your concern is acknowledged, Captain, but ultimately unnecessary.  I am, as you would say, fine.”

"'Fine' has variable definitions, Spock," Jim retorted, giving up the subtlety of pretending his attention was on the game in favor of openly observing Spock. 

There was tension in Spock's body that hadn't been there when he'd first entered Jim’s quarters. The tightness in the line of his shoulders and his clasped hands resting on the table made it clear he hadn't been expecting to have this conversation tonight, or possibly at all. Some of that was, unfortunately, a deliberate obfuscation on Jim's part.  If he'd made his intentions clear from the beginning, there was no guarantee that Spock would have accepted his invitation.  Right now, every uncomfortable line of his First Officer's body was saying Spock wouldn't have. 

Instead of filling the following silence, Jim waited, keeping his posture loose and nonconfrontational to keep from spooking his Vulcan First Officer.  He had to be patient and make it clear there was absolutely no pressure to speak; Spock responded terribly to being interrogated.  Jim just had to wait, and hope to God that his intuition was right about this one.  If Spock was ready to open up, he would--in his own time.  

As the silence dragged on and Jim continued to make absolutely no movements towards the board, Spock’s mood shifted further.  His brows pinched together just slightly, eyes flickering from Jim to the board as he put the pieces together and realized what Jim's game was. When he did, a flicker of irritation went through Spock's eyes, and his posture stiffened silently as he took in the full situation, Jim's open, unassuming body language from across the board, and walled himself up further. As most things with Spock were, it seemed to be a test: Spock wanted to see how far Jim's patience would go, if he would give up and drop the topic easily, return to their game of chess (as Spock was clearly hoping he'd do), or if Jim was prepared to keep them here for untold hours until Spock either walked away or talked.  

Fortunately, Jim was about the only person he knew who could out-stubborn a Vulcan. 

The minutes ticked on, Jim waiting patiently and Spock growing increasingly consternated as Jim refused to relent.  Finally, after several minutes spent warring in silence, Spock leaned back, folded his hands in his lap, and took on an air of weary, long-suffering resignation, visibly capitulating to his human Captain's antics (haha, Jim won). 

“Very well, Jim.  I will confess, my thoughts have been occupied by a somewhat... strange matter, as of late.”

“You wanna elaborate on that?" Jim offered, careful to keep the question neutral and open-ended.  

Spock didn’t make eye contact. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the 3D chess board. “It is a puzzle to which, prior to the termination of my relationship with the Lieutenant, I had given little attention.  I believed it unworthy of significant thought. However, in recent weeks..." Spock's frustration, though restrained, was clear as he paused, swallowing. "Regardless, as I cannot seem to come to a satisfying conclusion on the matter, perhaps your input will be useful.

"Since my separation from the Lieutenant, I have been reviewing my past romantic engagements, both human and Vulcan,” Spock said, words coming faster the longer he spoke, tiny flickers of emotion rising to the surface. Speaking in more clinical terms seemed to be making it easier for him. “Prior to this, I had believed there to be nothing about these experiences that merited further study. My recent discussions with the Lieutenant, however, recalled to mind a comment my father once made to me in private, and in light of these anomalies I believed further review was necessary. After doing so, and after meditating on these things, I have become aware of a... quandary.”  Spock looked at Jim with dark eyes, a frown pinching the corners of his mouth.  Jim felt his own expression tighten in concern and sympathy, and he shifted forward in his seat, tilting his head in an indication for Spock to go on. 

“Vulcans, as you know, do not allow themselves to be governed by their emotions,” Spock began again, seeming to take some strength in Jim's demonstrated empathy for his concerns. "Most Vulcan marriages are arranged from infancy, and are based on compatability between the minds of individuals. Love, as I was told, was not a Vulcan consideration, and so at a young age, I made the logical conclusion that love--romantic love," Spock clarified, ever-precise, "Is to all Vulcans a foreign concept, as it is to me. I assumed this to be a manifestation of my Vulcan nature. However...”  

And there, Spock seemed to falter, trailing off as if uncertain of how he should continue.  But, after a moment, he did.  

"My father told me after the destruction of Vulcan that he loved my mother," Spock confessed, eyes dim with memory. "At the time, I... confess I assumed it an aberration, perhaps an exaggeration of feeling induced by the grief we were experiencing, but... After speaking with him and with Nyo—Lieutenant Uhura," he caught himself, swallowing, "I believe he was speaking of the emotion accurately."

There was an eerily familiar feeling to this discussion, one Jim was beginning to think he knew.  He was starting to put the pieces together, and could feel understanding of the situation creeping in at the back of his mind, but for Spock's sake, Jim sat back and asked, "So, why is that important for you?"

Spock swallowed again.  “My father," he began, "a Vulcan, felt love for my mother--romantic love, beyond the attachments of friend or family. I know that my mother, a human, also felt love for him, as she spoke to me of it on several occasions.  I, their child, should logically be capable of the same feelings, but I have meditated on it for many hours now, and,” Spock looked up at Jim and, in an incredibly vulnerable moment, admitted, “it...would seem that I am incapable of love."

Jim could have sighed in relief--but he didn't.  The last thing Jim wanted was to downplay Spock's concerns, so instead, so as not to startle Spock, Jim sat back in his chair and smiled gently.  

“That's what's been bothering you, Spock?” Jim said, tilting his head. "If that's all, you've been worrying over nothing." Spock, faced with such an unexpectedly positive reaction, defaulted back to his usual response to such questions: flat-faced indignance.  

“Vulcans—” his bemused first mate began stiffly.

“Don’t worry, yeah, yeah; don’t play that game with me, Spock.  We’ve known each other for more than five years; Vulcan or human, I can read you like a book. Anyway,” Jim continued, displaying his palms in a gesture of peace, “I can confidently say you have nothing to worry about: as far as humanity goes, the way you feel--or don't, as it were--is perfectly natural. Common, even.”

Spock blinked. His eyebrows twitched down minutely as he digested this new information. “Explain," he requested after a moment's pause, clearly trying not to frown.  

“Well," Jim began, thinking back to his old days in the LGBTQ club and his many conversations with Q'uorra, "I'm sure you know this already, but human sexuality is incredibly, massively complicated.  I don't know how much you know about it, but I'll try to give you a basic primer. For starters, all humans have two separate orientations, one romantic, and one sexual, that can land anywhere on a crazy spectrum of variances.  Generally speaking, though, there are a couple different things that determine what those orientations actually are, one being human sex or gender, and the other being how easily you do or don't experience attraction."  

Spock seemed fascinated as Jim continued, "It gets pretty complicated the further you go into it, but the most important thing to know is that you can be any combination of anything in either of those two spectrums.  I, for example,” Jim said, jabbing a thumb at himself, “am an aromantic pansexual.  I feel no romantic attraction whatsoever, and feel sexual attraction to any and all genders.  Now, I can't say anything about your sexual orientation, but based on what you’ve said, as far as romance goes I think you’re probably aromantic, like me. And there's absolutely nothing odd about that.”

Spock seemed speechless.  

Jim, inwardly and outwardly, smiled.  He reached up to the 3D chess board and, finally, made his move.  As if this were some sort of signal, Spock seemed to snap from whatever trance he was in processing all the new information Jim had just thrown at him and blinked.  

“Fascinating,” Spock said, and clearly meant it. “I must research these concepts further. I confess I have had no cause to study the mechanics of human sensuality, beyond the rudimentary.  It would appear I have suffered from a lack of knowledge.”

Jim chuckled, hiding a grin behind his hand as, far more relaxed than when the conversation began, Spock made his next move, neatly cutting off Jim's plans. 

“Well, if you want someplace to start, Alfred Kinsey's an interesting read. He was one of the pioneering scholars in the field, way ahead of his time. The LGBTQ Society of Earth has a lot of great stuff in its archives.” Jim smiled and reached for his bishop, adding, "I'm sure you'll find it an enlightening read."

 

 

Four years later, Jim woke to the sound of raised voices in the corridor outside the officers’ quarters.  It sounded like McCoy and Uhura, probably fighting again over how...hell, Jim didn’t know; maybe how Bones had left a sock on the floor or some other, equally trivial bullshit. 

As the argument increased in volume, Jim groaned and rolled over, burying his face in Spock’s side. 

"You'd think they didn't know these corridors aren't soundproof," Jim muttered into his First Officer's smooth, warm skin. 

"They have previously expressed their disinterest in the fact," Spock reminded him, the glow of his PADD lighting up his face in their darkened quarters. His free hand began to card absently through Jim's hair, and Jim, still drowsy and heavy with sleep, stretched like a cat beneath the covers at the touch and sank back down into his pillow. 

“If they’re still fighting fifteen minutes from now,” Jim said on a yawn, “you can tell them I _order_ them to shut up and go back to their quarters.”  If they were gonna be this loud, they could do it behind closed doors.  

Seveteen minutes later, Spock slipped back into bed, shifting closer when Jim octopused onto his hip, as was his wont.  

“They have reconciled their differences and have returned to their quarters," Spock informed him, pulling the covers up over both of them as they finally settled down to sleep. "The atmosphere seemed favorable,” he added drily.  

“Fuckin' romantics,” Jim slurred drowsily. 

“Indeed,” Spock agreed.

 

 

END


End file.
